


Rawhide

by corbaccio



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Anal Sex, Light Bondage, M/M, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 19:27:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6252499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corbaccio/pseuds/corbaccio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn't that Eren had always had a thing for the harness. It was more that it was <i>Armin</i> in the harness. And the boots didn't help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rawhide

**Author's Note:**

> while sorting through my tumblr likes, i rediscovered [this piece of eremin art](http://zu-nsfw-art.tumblr.com/post/70501890527/eremin-smut-week-day-4-uniform-kink) (nsfw), an oldie but a goldie, and got inspired. this was a lot of fun to write! i hope you enjoy reading it, too.

“Eyes ahead, Eren!”

Instinct took over. Eren’s fingers flew to the triggers, snapping the cables back and away as he braced for impact. None came, of course. None had come the four other times either. The whiplash of his redirect hurt almost as much, though, and Eren barely managed to keep his balance as he landed. There was no serious injury, and now that he was on solid ground, the world slid itself back into place. He shot Levi a look, though it was more reproachful than insubordinate.

Levi’s voice was cool, flat. “Try to stay focused on the task at hand,” he said. Eren’s neck gave a painful twinge.

Mikasa was already there at the clearing, the first to finish the course. Her gaze flicked from Eren to Levi, but she wasn’t so quick to challenge the Captain as she used to be. Once Eren had got his breath back, she wandered over to him.

“What’s got you so distracted?” she said, low enough that Levi couldn’t hear.

“Nothing,” Eren said, and at Mikasa's unconvinced stare: “ _nothing_.”

It wasn’t nothing, but Eren could hardly admit that to himself, never mind anyone else. Once it was clear that he wasn’t going to elaborate, Mikasa shrugged. Her focus shifted instead to Eren’s neck, noticing the way his hand lingered there.

“Does it hurt?” she asked. Being under her scrutiny didn’t bother Eren like it had in the past. He rolled his shoulders, bent his head one way then the other.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Eren said. The pinch of pain was slight enough that he’d forget about it in a few minutes, titan healing or not. His pride stung more.

“... Right,” Mikasa said. Then, glancing away, “The others are coming.”

She stepped out of Eren’s space to watch the trees. Eren hadn't sensed them, but not a moment later he too could hear the branches creaking, brush giving way. From different directions came Jean, Sasha close behind. She did a fancy swooping kind of landing that made Eren’s stomach sympathy-flip. Connie emerged, letting out a giddy _whoop!_ , and then seconds later: Armin, touching down with practiced ease. He blotted his forehead with the cuff of his sleeve, and in the same motion pushed back the hair that had fallen before his eyes.

“Okay,” Levi said. He nodded at each of them in turn. If he felt any pride he didn’t show it, but then Levi’s confidence had always been a private thing. “You all made good time. That’s enough for today—go wash up before you start stinking up the place.”

They had been practicing manoeuvres for the past two hours, constant but for a brief ten minute respite in between. Though Armin didn’t struggle to keep up like he used to, there was no missing the relief that crossed his face as the Captain called an end to it. To be fair, anyone who wasn’t Mikasa sagged with similar exhaustion.

Eren didn’t rush to Armin’s side like he used to, either. That had been a harder habit to break—ones set in childhood usually were. Instead, Eren watched out of the corner of his eye, flipping the cap of his water skin and tipping it into his mouth. Armin rested with his hands on his knees, and then began to cool down. Mikasa led him through a series of stretches. This help Armin didn’t seem to mind, and honestly neither did Eren, especially when Armin bent over to touch his toes. It was only when he felt the heat of Mikasa’s stare on him that Eren looked away. She arched an eyebrow at him and, her gaze never leaving his, gently guided Armin upright before gesturing in the direction of basecamp. Eren couldn’t make out what she was saying, but she was heading towards him now. Once she was close enough, she nudged her elbow into Eren’s ribs.

It didn’t particularly hurt, but still.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“You know he doesn’t like being looked out for,” Mikasa said.

Eren took a moment to process what she meant. “... I’m not _looking out_ for him. Not any more so than you,” he said, but then quieter, less sure, “does he—does he think I am?”

Mikasa shook her head. “But he’d be upset if he found out, especially if it distracted you from training,” she said. “Especially if you got injured because of it.”

Her hand rested on her scarf, a mirror of Eren’s earlier gesture. Then, before he had the chance to reply, she started off into a jog. Her point was valid, but Eren hadn’t been lying when he said he wasn’t looking out for Armin. Not in that way, at least.

So many things had changed in the last few years. Having Armin as a lover was a small one by comparison to some—the shift from what they had been to what they were now had been so natural, so organic, that Eren had wondered how it had taken them so long in the first place—but it did put some things in a new dimension.

Things like… like…

Like the uniform, for example. Like the harness. The harness they’d been wearing since they were twelve years old, and Armin had been so skinny then that he’d needed extra holes punched into the belts. He didn’t now, of course. Maybe that was part of the problem. Armin was still small by a soldier's standards, and probably always would be, but he wasn’t a boy anymore. None of them were. Eren knew _that_ well enough, even if the thought made the back of his neck prickle with a familiar heat.

Eren tried not to look as awkward and obvious as he felt and headed over. Armin relaxed out of a shoulder stretch to flash a smile his way.

“Hey,” Armin said. His smile faltered at Eren’s silence. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah!” Eren said, too quickly. “I’m good. Fine. You?”

Armin swiped back the hair clinging to his damp forehead. “Mm. It was tough, but when isn’t it,” Armin said. He looked away, and Eren followed his gaze to Mikasa’s distant shape. “Not for all of us, of course.”

“Yeah, but that’s Mikasa. No one can keep up with Mikasa,” Eren said, “and you looked... good, um, today. I mean, you look good anyway, but your manoeuvring especially.”

“I don't feel like I look good." His voice, this time, had a wry edge to it. “I’m hot, I’m soaked through, I’m exhausted...”

“ _And_ great,” Eren added. Armin always looked great, Eren thought loyally. With flushed cheeks, his hair at all angles with how he’d pushed it back. With the harness.

Eren’s gaze dropped in spite of himself. The belts trapped Armin’s legs, disappearing into his boots. God, never mind the goddamn _boots_. Armin’s calves sheathed in dark leather. The contrast against the white trousers was one thing, but whenever Eren’s thoughts wandered this familiar track he found himself imagining what it would look like against Armin’s naked skin. His chest framed by the harness, the squeeze of the straps at the flesh of his thighs, a touch tighter than normal.

 _This is a bad train of thought_ , Eren told himself. Certainly not a good one when out in the training grounds in broad daylight. But it was one of those things where the more Eren tried not to think about it, the more insistent it became.

It had started innocently enough. Armin had been reading in his bunk in the evening after mess, and fallen asleep in his uniform. Eren had watched him sleep for a moment, and then had gone to undo the buckles of his harness. It had been easy to slide his fingers in beneath the straps, and they pulled away without too much resistance, which meant Armin wasn't wearing it to regulation. It had been such a pointless thing to notice. Eren had removed his fingers, and traced the line of the strap up Armin’s side, to his chest. Even in sleep, Armin had given a shiver, a sigh, and leant into his touch.

Eren hadn't felt anything besides fondness at the time. But later, thinking back on it—Armin laid flat on the bed, the harness crossing him all over, and Eren’s own dark hands there—made his groin ache. The thread had spun itself into the canvas of his dreams. It wasn’t like this was something Eren could easily put aside: they wore the harness most every day. It was becoming deeply distracting.

In fact, it was so distracting that Eren hadn’t noticed the length of his silence until Armin’s voice broke it.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his brow furrowed.

Armin’s colouring was returning to normal, but Eren could feel the heat rising again in his own face.

“Yeah. Sorry, yeah,” Eren said. “Hey, we should head back. To wash up and stuff. Right?”

Armin looked at him intently, this time, as if he could puzzle out Eren’s thoughts by studying his expression. When he looked away, Eren exhaled. “Yeah, we should,” Armin said. He plucked at his sweat-damp shirt and grimaced. “I can’t imagine the Captain would be too pleased if we turned up like this at mess.”

 

 

The evening was uneventful, though Eren was shot suspect glances by both Mikasa and Armin the whole time they ate, no matter how casual he tried to seem. He knew it was only out of concern, but the intensity of it left him feeling prickly. Eren had had enough of being watched for a lifetime.

After they left Mikasa to head to bed, Armin stopped him with a hand on his arm. The touch—for how gentle it was, how un-self-conscious, how domestic—made a pleasant heat curl up from the base of Eren’s stomach. Often, when the corridor was empty as it was now, this signaled a kiss, or a hot whisper in his ear, or if Armin felt brave, something more.

“Are you _sure_ you’re all right?” Armin asked.

The pleasant heat dissipated in an instant.

Eren sighed. “Yes, I’m sure,” he said. Armin bit his lip, brow furrowing.

“Only, you’ve been distracted all day,” Armin went on. “You didn’t eat even half your dinner. In fact, you’ve been odd all week.”

Eren felt his hackles raise in parallel with his embarrassment. Had he really been so transparent? “No, I haven’t,” he said.

“Even Jean has noticed.”

Eren scoffed. “I’d be more impressed if you said _Connie_ had.”

“Eren,” Armin said. He squeezed Eren’s arm, as though to show his sincerity. “I’m serious. Can’t you just tell me? Or Mikasa?”

 _But it’s so stupid_ , Eren thought, looking into Armin’s wide, imploring eyes. _And ridiculous. And way less of a big deal than you seem to think it is._

Still, Eren knew if he tried to convince Armin otherwise it would only make the matter worse. If it were Armin or Mikasa behaving as he was, Eren would be just the same. Maybe that was the problem, when you knew each other as well as they did. Or maybe Eren really was just that transparent.

He closed his eyes. “Alright,” Eren said, and with perhaps more gravity than necessary, explained himself.

There was a pause. Eren took a breath. At least Armin didn’t laugh, or look scandalised, or weirded out. Rather, he looked more confused than anything.

“But we’ve been wearing the harness for… what, seven years, now?” Armin said.

Eren cleared his throat. His face felt impossibly hot. “It’s not like it's just the harness. It’s you. _You_ in it.” Armin blushed at this, which at least made Eren feel not so alone. “And like I said, it just kinda… came into my head one day. I know it’s stupid.”

Armin shook his head. “No, it’s not.” Then, he scanned the corridor before planting a kiss on the corner of Eren's mouth. “I’m glad that that’s all it was, though.”

He turned before Eren had the chance to say anything, but from the curve of his cheek he could tell Armin was smiling. Now he felt silly for being so embarrassed. And better for it to have been Armin to wear him down than Mikasa. That really would’ve been excruciating.

 

 

Eren had more control over his titan form now than ever, but he was still assigned a room separate from the dorms. (That is, unless space was tight—a rare case for the undermanned Survey Corps.) Hanji said it was a safety precaution. Not that there really remained any doubts among his peers or his superiors, but new recruits were understandably wary. Eren tried not to let it bother him. And anyway, it wasn’t like he was cuffed to the bed rail, hidden away in a lightless basement as in the early days. Hell, Jean usually whined at the injustice of it— _you don’t have to deal with Connie snoring his goddamn head off!_

If Eren were honest, he sometimes missed the snoring. The steady assurance of others in the dark. Before the trainee camps, he had shared a roof with countless refugees; before even then, he had shared his bedroom with Mikasa, and Armin at times. Sleeping and waking alone had taken some adjustment. But it had its own benefits.

Eren had been straining his ears for the past half hour when finally he heard footsteps. The weight and pace of them would have been unmistakable even if he hadn’t been anticipating it quite so much. The door opened, and then clicked quietly shut as his visitor shuffled into the room. The lit candle in his hand illuminated his face.

“Hey,” Armin said, softly. He walked over and lit the lamp at Eren’s bedside before setting the candlestick down.

“Hey,” Eren said back.

Eren did not smile deliberately; it seemed to just float on to his face, looking at Armin, who had settled on the edge of Eren’s bed. These night visits had become something of a routine, albeit not _every_ night, but already Armin was blushing, his pupils dilated in the half-dark. His hand found Eren’s on top of the cover. He bent close, the bed creaking, and kissed Eren on the lips.

Kissing Armin never got old. The first time they kissed—beyond the exploratory innocence of childhood—was in their shared bunk, the third year of training. Eren had been made bold by the sanctuary of the dark, leaning in close enough that he could make out the pale brush of Armin’s lashes against his cheek. It had been chaste, and warm, and familiar in a way that Eren couldn't place.

It was different now, of course. When Eren leaned close, Armin’s lips would soften expectantly, and his breathing would hitch in his throat. Armin kissed him with confidence, with hunger, with curiosity. He kissed Eren in such a way, sometimes, that his thoughts left him.

There was something strange this time, though. The kiss itself was as it always was, but Armin seemed to be holding back. His body listed away, rather than towards him. Even when Eren reached for him, his hand coming up to cup the nape of Armin’s neck, he kept the short distance between them.

Armin broke the kiss quite suddenly. His breath came in quick, shallow pants. “Wait,” he said. He pushed himself up from the mattress and stood instead. He looked—well, awkward, standing there, his arms at his side. He was blushing deeply now, but Eren only felt confused and concerned.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. It was hard to tell in the light of the single lamp, but Armin seemed to blush harder.

“Can you… could you close your eyes?” Armin said. He averted his gaze, staring at the wall above Eren’s head, as though that would ease his discomfort. “Um. Please.”

Eren was at least assured that he hadn’t done anything wrong, but this was new. They had never been shy of each other—you couldn’t afford to be in the military, and even before then they’d seen each other naked plenty of times. Though this was not entirely unfamiliar: Eren recognised the quiet hesitance from the first time Armin had put his mouth on him, laying Eren on the bed, hands pressed flat to his hips to keep him steady. Wild heat lashed in his belly at the memory.

“Okay,” Eren said. He closed his eyes. It reminded him of being a child, awaiting an impromptu present that Armin would drop into his open palm. Dried seed heads, half an eggshell, a froglet he’d found by the water’s edge, no bigger than the tip of his finger. The sound of clothes being undone and then cast aside filled Eren with a similar but very distinct feeling of anticipation.

“Alright,” came Armin’s voice, “you can open them now.”

So Eren did, and nearly swallowed his own tongue. Maybe it shouldn’t have been such a surprise, but it had been over a week since Armin had wormed the admission out of him. Armin hadn’t brought it up again, and neither had Eren, though the fantasy had persisted at the edges of his consciousness.

The reality was better than anything he had imagined. The straps looked almost black against Armin's bare skin. The flush wasn’t contained to his face; now that he had removed his collared shirt, Eren could see how it tinged his quivering throat. Armin's breathing came hard, in a way that Eren had come to recognise was from arousal. His nipples peaked visibly, cock stiffening against his thigh. As his chest rose and fell, the candlelight caught the sleek contrast of the scars that marked him: childhood accidents, training injuries, battle wounds.

Eren had never felt so hard in all his life, nor his mouth so dry.

“Armin,” he said, dumbly. It was as though his brain was some steps behind, processing still the dark crossing of leather on naked skin.

“Is it alright?” Armin whispered. He’d folded one arm over himself, hand clutching his other elbow, sweetly self-conscious.

Eren gaped at him. “God, yes,” he burst out. “Better than alright. I mean… _god._ ”

Eren swung his legs over the side of the bed, where Armin stood, their knees touching. Armin, utterly naked but for the harness—and oh, _hell_ , he’d put the boots back on, Eren saw now, the leather cool and supple against his own shins. Eren’s cock throbbed. Slowly, carefully, as though Armin were an apparition that would disappear at his touch, Eren lifted his hands. He lay them flat against Armin’s abdomen. The blood-heat of his skin; the heat of the leather _from_ his skin; the cool contrast of the buckles. Eren’s fingers smudged the metal, and he realised then that Armin must have polished the thing before coming down to him. It sent another jolt of arousal through him.

Eren slid his fingers beneath the straps running vertical down his chest and lifted them, gently, so as not to pinch his skin. Bruises, faint and mottled, echoed the lines of the harness beneath. He glanced up and saw the intensity with which Armin was watching him. Eren grinned. He pulled the straps back as far as they would go, and let them snap back. It earned him a hoarse, unsteady moan. Absently Eren thought he could do this till early light slid under his shutters: explore the sensitive body before him, the reactions he could tease from it, a short inhale, the tremor of the muscles of his inner thigh. But Armin must have had other ideas.

He took Eren’s hands in his and, gentle but firm, placed them on the bed. As Armin stepped forward, Eren opened his thighs to accommodate him. He felt hyper-aware of Armin’s gaze, cast low, where Eren’s erection tented the front of his pants. Armin’s eyes lifted to meet his—a sly look, there, but Eren only caught it for a moment before Armin was dropping to his knees, leaning back on his haunches. He tugged at Eren’s waistband. His mouth was on Eren’s cock in moments.

“Ohh,” Eren breathed. Armin took him deep into his mouth and held him there, the tight seize of his throat nearly unbearable. Eren’s hands made involuntary fists. He tried to focus on the sting of his nails into his palms over the incredible heat.

It must’ve only been seconds till Armin drew back, but it felt far longer as Eren fought back the impossible, wonderful, premature urge to come down his throat. The dampness made the chill in the air more apparent, but Armin was yet close enough that his hot breath ghosted over Eren’s shaft. He tucked a lock of hair back behind his ear. His eyes were wide and intent on Eren’s face, as though seeking affirmation.

He pressed a brief kiss to the slit, a bead of precum catching on his bottom lip. His clever fingers curled around the base of Eren’s cock and stroked in slow, steady pulls that weren’t quite long enough to be any more than teasing.

“Good?” he asked. His voice was all innocence. It could have been funny, with his lips slick with saliva and precum, but for the way it turned the heat in Eren’s gut to a fire.

“Yeah,” Eren said, lower than he expected.

His head was clearer now with Armin’s mouth off him, and he gazed down at his lover. The dark straps emphasised the fine musculature of his back, the curve of his buttocks, as did the boots tucked beneath. Eren made a soft, choking sound. Armin nudged against his belly, nosing the coarse dark hair below his navel, a wordless question. His cock slid against Armin’s cheek. His skin was startlingly warm, velvet smooth.

“G-get up,” Eren said thickly. He kicked off his underwear, standing himself as he pulled his sleepshirt up and over his head. Armin was watching him, appreciative, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as he studied Eren’s body. Another unconscious habit.

It took enormous self-restraint not to launch himself forward, to hoist Armin against the wall and work him with his fingers until he could slide deep into him, deep enough that they felt more like one than two. But it would be a shame to rush, when Armin had… had done this, and for him especially.

Eren reached out, hooking two fingers in the belt at Armin’s middle and pulling him close with it.

“That’s so handy,” Eren said. Armin laughed softly in reply.

They were close enough that Armin could, and did, embrace him, his hands drifting idly up and down Eren’s back and thighs. This kind of skin-on-skin contact was electrifying enough, but with the added press of the belts, the minute stab of the buckles with how close they were—well. Eren followed Armin’s lead. His fingers played up the fine line of Armin’s spine, along the prominent arches of his shoulder blades and then down again, tracing the straps to the two sweet dimples at the small of his back. Armin was so warm, so sturdy, against him. Eren rested his chin on his shoulder, closing his eyes. It made his touch all the more sensitive. He could feel the precise stitching at the harness’ seams, even the indentations they left in Armin’s skin. The leather was worn smooth from use—Armin had stopped growing some time ago, and took such good care of his gear that he had had no need for a recent replacement.

It was becoming quickly overwhelming, especially with Armin’s erection pressed against his own between them, the slick slide of it. Having to deal with the sight of Armin all belted up every day for weeks on end had left Eren aching. Now, like this, the utility of the harness in the face of this vulnerability, the arousal he’d buried away was alight, burning him up from the inside.

Eren turned Armin around so he was facing the wall instead, and with his palm flat between his shoulder blades, gently pushed forward. Armin understood the direction and bent at the middle, hands braced against the wall, feet shoulder width apart. His head was turned just enough that Eren could see his bitten-red bottom lip. The sight had Eren holding Armin’s hips in fear that he was going to fall over. He half expected his breath to steam.

“Damn it,” Eren said. He hooked two fingers of each hand beneath the straps crossing Armin’s hips, his cock sliding against the curve of his ass.

Armin had forgone the sturdier panels of the harness, presumably for comfort’s sake; it allowed Eren to watch the artful shifting of his shoulder blades as he adjusted to the position. The flesh of his thighs was reddened by the pinch of the straps, just as Eren had imagined. There was scarcely enough give for him to slide his fingers in between.

“Stay… stay like that,” Eren said, though the command sounded more like a plea with how his voice shook.

He left him for an agonising moment, reaching into his bedside drawer for the oil he kept there. They’d need some more soon, Eren noticed, and it filled him with a curious sense of satisfaction. He rolled the bottle in his palms to warm it. Armin’s head was craned over his shoulder, watching him, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth.

“Ready?” Eren asked, though it seemed a stupid question once said aloud.

If Armin thought as such, he gave nothing away. His voice was low, throaty, when he spoke: “Yes. _Very_.”

He poured some oil into his hand, then let more dribble on the small of Armin’s back. It made shining trails on its way down and where Eren’s fingers guided it, against Armin, inside of him. Armin shifted his weight, shivering appreciatively as Eren cupped his erection with his slick palm.

Their foreplay meant Armin was already well-relaxed. It wasn’t long before he was whining through his nose, rocking back on his heels to follow when Eren’s fingers slid out of him. The muscles of his back flexed beneath the leather bracketing them. Eren slicked himself up and tossed the bottle on to the pile of clothes he’d left pooled on the floor.

There was no need to ask this time if Armin were ready. Eren pressed his cock against him, the heat of this—of Armin, of them—irresistible, and snapped his hips forward, hard, hard enough to make Armin jerk. He made a short, strangled gasp; a noise that Eren knew was for him and him alone. Once, with the afterglow still warm on him, with sleep’s coming call, Armin had admitted he liked it like that, sometimes, when Eren gave in to the animal part of himself. That he liked it, sometimes, when it hurt a little.

The memory of that quiet confession, Armin’s lashes cast low over his darkened eyes, made arousal tighten in Eren’s belly and groin. He reached upwards and pulled hard at the straps at his shoulders, forcing Armin’s back to arch.

Armin gasped, a deep shuddering sound. “Eren,” he said, soft but pitched with a kind of panic, “do that— _that_ again, please.”

The tone of his voice made something hot and shivery make home in Eren’s chest. He forced his hips to stop, his cock buried to the hilt, the heavy hot pressure of it tightening in his balls. His knotted insides were loosening, softening, the sound of Armin’s ragged moans bringing him close. He skimmed his hands up from Armin’s waist to his sides, drifting forward to play with his chest. His nipples hardened under the blunt edge of Eren’s thumbnail.

He slid his warm, firm fingers beneath the belts that striped his ribs, feeling out the tender skin before letting them snap back. Another gasp. Armin squeezed around him. Eren bent forward, his front to the small of Armin’s back, the touch of skin, sweat; of leather, metal. Armin nudged forward an inch, heels squeaking against the tiled floor. His left forearm braced against the wall, his other hand moving in between his legs. Ahh.

“Is it good?” Eren asked, and his words made Armin tighten once more. He tried to pull away, but Eren held him there, fingers hooked in the straps that crossed the base of his spine.

“Yes,” Armin said, simply, honestly, breathless.

His voice—the noise of his touching himself—the vice-like grip around his cock was dizzying. Eren’s gut swooped. He gave in to the part of himself that told him to, driving fast and deep. His climax was a raw, brutal thing that stole his breath, stole his senses, but for Armin, Armin’s hipbones under Eren’s fierce grip, the bare nape of his neck between his parted hair, his trembling thighs, one hand curled into a white-knuckled fist against the wall and the other beneath himself, stroking fast now in time with Eren’s frantic thrusts. Armin made a sharp, sudden sound, almost a cry. He came only moments after Eren had finished inside him, hips jerking helplessly into his own palm.

The silence that followed was dark, comforting, broken only by their breathing, apart at times and in others coming together, like two people in step. The easy, unconscious unity of it. The white-hot fire in Eren’s belly was cooling to embers, no less intense but bearable, now. Armin had found the strength to stand straight, but not much else; he slumped bodily against the wall. Pearly come striped the dark leather of his boots. In spite of everything, Eren’s cock twitched against his thigh.

Luckily it was only some short steps to the bed, for Eren’s own legs felt more liquid than solid as he lifted Armin against his chest. This would usually earn some protest, but this time Armin sighed, his damp forehead tucked into Eren’s shoulder. He eased Armin on the mattress before collapsing himself. Eren felt boneless, thoughtless. Knots of tension he hadn’t even noticed taking shape had melted away, and left him thrumming with pleasure. Armin’s face, at which Eren was staring, was perfectly restful.

“Armin,” Eren whispered, though there was no one else to hear them, “you asleep?”

His eyes were closed, and his breathing had steadied, but Armin shook his head. “Mm. Nearly, though.”

Eren looked down and laughed. “You must be tired if you could sleep with that thing still on,” he said. Armin’s lashes fluttered open, then shut again.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, as though he’d forgotten the harness altogether. After a pause so long Eren had thought he’d drifted off proper, Armin spoke, “Do you remember when Shadis caught Sasha napping in the storage with all her gear still on?”

Eren nodded. “Twenty laps as punishment. I wonder why he got so angry.”

“Oh _god_. Don’t mention laps,” Armin said, though the amusement came clear through his exhaustion. “Maybe it’s a choking hazard.”

“That won’t do, then.” Eren pushed himself upright on his elbows. He felt Armin begin to move, but stopped him with a touch. “It’s alright, I’ve got it.”

In the aftermath, Eren’s fingers felt thick, stupid, as he fumbled with the clasps of the harness. Armin, if he minded, or even noticed, said nothing; just lay there, his eyes soft and fond enough that it only made Eren’s hands shake harder. Eventually, blessedly, the buckles yielded, Armin sighing as each came undone. He sat up and pulled off his boots himself, and, not bothering to undo the clasp, tugged the harness straps from his feet and threw the lot in a tangled mess over the edge of the bed. He must have been tired, Eren thought—normally Armin was fastidious with his gear.

Where Eren had pulled, the harness had left marks. Nothing severe: they’d likely have faded by morning, and tomorrow was a rare rest day. It wouldn’t have surprised Eren if Armin, as prescient as he was, had kept that it mind when planning this surprise. He slid a calloused finger over one, a red indentation that ran up his chest, parallel to the curve of his pectoral. Armin hummed.

Their faces this close reminded Eren of nights in the trainee dorms, when restless dreams would have him wake to find their blankets tangled together. Armin’s cheek would be nearly against his own, his naked feet at Eren’s shins. He used to watch Armin sleep, his heart thudding in his chest, the fear and the thrill and the hope that he would open his eyes and see right into Eren’s, into his soul. He didn’t have to hide it anymore. He hardly could back then, and he certainly couldn’t now—this fathomless, infinite feeling, as though he were standing at the very edge before the drop.

The chill in the air that had been easy to ignore in the heat of the moment was making itself known again. With the last of his strength, Eren turned out the lamp, blew out the candle, and pulled the sheets from the foot of the bed over them both. Armin pressed his face deeper into the pillow.

“You warm enough?” Eren asked. As he adjusted to the new dark, he could just make out Armin’s eyes, scarcely open but bright in spite of that, the telling crinkle of amusement at their corners.

“No,” Armin said. He slid closer under the covers, opening his arms to take Eren against himself. This time Eren felt only skin-on-skin, but he did not want for anything more. “Come warm me up.”


End file.
